


For All Who Remain

by cupofdaydream



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst, Eventual Romance, F/M, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-06 15:27:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1108480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cupofdaydream/pseuds/cupofdaydream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Each time the new year rolls around, Eren, Mikasa, and Armin must cope with the loss of their loved ones. Living is simply stringing together lie, after beautiful lie, stitching together something bearable in a world so cruel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. She Loved La Boulanger

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: In terms of timeline, the first part of the trio takes place probably around their last two years as trainees, while the second will take place during the time spent at the cabin (post Ch. 50 in the manga), though I've done my best to keep things major spoiler free, the third will take place about a year or two after that, branching off from the timeline given.
> 
> Also, I'm no dance expert, but I drew much of my inspiration for the first two dance scenes from a variety of English, French, and German contredances as well as other traditional dances.
> 
> Eremika will feature strongly in the upcoming chapters (predominantly in the third and final one). I was so tempted to slip in a moment or two during this one, but taking in account canon timeline, it'd be out of place.

**  
  
**

Shardis tells them that real soldiers don't go to festivals.  _Real_  soldiers don't have time to be sentimental. But he ends training early, nonetheless, leaving them with enough time for the seven mile walk to the nearest village—though not without having them clean the barracks from top to bottom first.

The village is no Shiganishina, but it still fills the trio with nostalgia. The entire town is bursting at the seams, filled with countless of others who've made the journey to the nearest village on the river. Music and familiar smells waft through the air, and vendors line the streets with charismatic little stalls, the inviting scents wetting the palates of those passing by. Only a handful of the trainees purchase the little star-shaped candies, while the rest of them stare enviously, left only to imagine the tastes of past New Year's long ago.

The three of them pool their money together to buy a single candle from one of the stalls set a ways away from the center of town, where the crowd has thinned out, and the music barely carries.

"I haven't seen your faces here before," the man says as he hands them a candle, a match, and some rope for the raft. "You kids travel far?"

"We're trainees from the military camp a ways away, Sir," Mikasa answers. The man nods.

They hold out five coins, but he waves them aside.

"Keep it," he says. And he pulls a tattered Garrison crest from his breast pocket. "This was my eldest's." He salutes them: hand crossing his heart, and the other at his back in a way that makes Armin's chest burst simultaneously with pride and sorrow.

In unison, they return the tribute, doing their best to match his passion and honor, thank him, and continue on their way, leaving the man and his stall behind.

Back in the chaos of the main streets, they're forced to fight their way through a crowd gathered in front of a particularly large stall. And when Armin sees why, he stops too.

They're beautiful: adorned in colorful ribbons and flowers, grandiose miniature ships fit to hold five candles at the very least. He's most enraptured by the sails, which he points out to Eren. Hand-embroidered sparrows flit across the fabric, their wings spread as they're carried by the wind—they're for decorative purposes only, of course, not  _actually_  meant to catch the wind.

But Mikasa reminds them with a gentle nudge that the coins in their pockets aren't heavy enough to anchor them there. And so they move on.

Armin knows it's not intentional, but they end up in the town square anyways, drawn by the lively music and thunderous steps on the cobblestone ground.

"They're about to play the last song," he says, watching as the crowd begins to form up in circles. "Hey!"

Mikasa is quick to pull them into the fray, Armin on her left, and Eren on her right, both boys helplessly struggling to escape. She pays them no heed.

And when the band starts up, they're trapped. The song starts up much faster than Armin anticipates, and he trips and stumbles as he practically runs to keep up with everyone else, as they move round in a circle. He looks to Mikasa, who gives him a reassuring squeeze of the hand before forcefully tugging Eren along—adamant on walking.

"Eren. Skip."

"I didn't ask for this!"

"Your mother loved La Boulanger. I  _know_  you know this dance."

And sure enough, when the first exchange occurs, Eren completes the handoffs flawlessly—despite the evident reluctance to do so displayed on his face and in his steps. When he returns back to Mikasa's side, he joins hands with her again with a grip intent on stinging, and holds back a wince when she returns the grip with more force.

Armin stares at him in awe as they circle round again.

"Shut up," Eren grumbles.

They twirl, and spin, and skip, and it reminds Armin of lighter festivals past when he spun with his mother on his right, and his father to his left, his feet dangling as they swung him round and round, a smile on his face, and laughter on his lips.

Now, their circle skips clockwise, turning back the hands of time. And Armin recollects every memory, every dance, the nostalgia of lighter days filling him with so much joy that he throws his head back and laughs, setting his jubilation free into the fading light of the sky.

The dance ends, and they're doubled over, out of breath from laughter. Mikasa covers her mouth, her eyes squeezed shut, as she muffles the sound of her bell-like giggle. Eren's face is still set in its perpetual frown, but his eyes, crinkled at the edges, beg to contradict, and his shoulders shake with what his pride won't let him speak.

"Eren," Mikasa says when laughter permits, "don't do that to your face. Just smile."

"You're the one who's covering your mouth," Eren retorts with as much force as he can muster, though his voice wavers as he does so, "I'll smile when  _you_  laugh. Hypocrite."

In truth, Armin wishes that they'd both let themselves laugh, for it seems that over the years they've simply forgotten how. And now, now that they've remembered, now that the memory has returned, they can't find it within themselves to set it free, can't find it within themselves to let themselves be happy—just for this moment. And they deserve to be happy. They all do. But then Armin remembers what day it is, the candle in his pocket, and why they're here in the first place, and that is enough to understand why Mikasa and Eren won't let their laughter ring. Armin curses his own foolishness.

"To the river!" someone cries out. And for the second time that night, Mikasa takes both Armin and Eren's hands in her own, and leads them to follow the procession.

 

**. . .**

Armin's breath wafts out as fog before him, and he shivers; the grass crunches beneath his feet, yet the river flows on—it won't freeze over for another three weeks.

They fashion a raft out of some sticks and the rope, Eren strikes the match upon his shoe, and they set their raft afloat amongst similar ones made by the other trainees.

Thousands of flames flicker off the surface of the water. The river becomes illuminated. Sometimes the candles burn for a son or a daughter who disappeared in The Fall, a mother, a father, a sister, a brother, a child lost in infancy—their loved ones cast them adrift in the river, watching with pain invading their memories, and hope filling their hearts as the current carries them away.

The three of them set their candle in the water for parents gone too soon: for two parents gone with a knock on the door, two parents called away by the world outside, a grandfather stolen away by some higher hand, a mother lost when the great wall fell, and the sky cried tears of red, for a father who disappeared, the candle burns for seven souls in total, it's like a beacon, guiding them towards freedom.

They link hands, and see their little raft off as it joins the thousands of other floating lights down the steady lull of the river.

"I miss them," Armin says.

Two nodding chins serve as a reply. Distant, it's almost as if the two of them drift down river alongside the burning flame.

Mikasa squeezes both their hands tighter, and Armin returns it, holding fast to the little, makeshift family they've managed to stitch together in the ruins of disaster.

They watch until their raft fades from sight, unrecognizable from the other tiny lights so far away, they're like stars caught on the surface of the water.

And the child inside of him dreams of the flames floating down river, carried past the looming walls to the outside world, drifting along until maybe, just maybe they reach the ocean. The image of never-ending blue, thousands of flames reflecting off the glass of the water visits him. And Armin finds contentment in knowing that maybe, just maybe, his loved ones really did make it to the ocean after all.


	2. Play Us A Reel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: swearing, minor spoilers for manga chapter 52, though nothing at all major. (mostly setting)
> 
> A/N: The Reel is a dance traditionally danced by higher society—I sort of fantasized that one of the girls from Connie's town took a trip to Wall Sina and taught it to everyone when she came back.

 

Someone finds an old violin in the attic—horribly out of tune, and the body cracked. Everyone is surprised when Jean offers to play, but the shock subsides once they hear him pick and bow out a few notes.

Sasha is the first one up and dancing, pulling a laughing Krista along with her.

"Oi! Jean!" Connie says as he hops to his feet, "play us a reel."

"A  _reel_? Don't fuck with me, Connie."

"Sir!" Connie exclaims, and the pompous tone of voice he takes on draws giggles and snorts from the two others occupants on the grand "ballroom floor." "Where do you think you are, the farmlands of Wall Rose?! Refrain from using such vulgar language, or else you won't be paid a cent. Now play us a reel—the most finest reel you have for Wall Sina's most finest!"

The three of them join hands and attempt a cycle. It ends up less a reel, and more a game of ring around the rosie as they hoot and laugh, tripping over each others feet.

"What idiots," Levi mutters to no one in particular. But Eren is almost certain that he can spot the slight movement of the lance corporal's toes tapping out the beat.

Connie prances over to the four still sitting, standing before Eren and bowing the deepest of bows.

"No," Eren says before Connie can even ask.

"But!"

"No."

Connie turns his eyes to Armin instead.

"May I have this dance, Madam Arlert?"

"But Connie!"

"Just go with it, Armin!"

Armin concedes, hanging his head in shame as he's dragged to his feet.

"By the way, we sort of need one more couple for an actual reel. No pressure," Connie says hurriedly before whisking Armin away.

The remaining three are adamant to avoid eye contact with one another. And while Levi sits, arms and legs crossed, in full confidence of the security of his sedentary state, Eren and Mikasa do their best to blend in with the backs of their chairs. Eren makes to sneak away, subconsciously crossing his fingers that his presence has been forgotten by the others.

No such luck.

"Mikasa! Eren! You think yourselves above the reel?!" Jean calls from his corner, above the shrill notes of the violin. "Get over here with the rest of these fools where you belong!"

Sighing, Mikasa rises. "Are you coming?" she asks him.

He's about to decline and flick off Jean when Levi answers for him: "Oh, don't worry, Ackerman. Eren  _better_  be going," he says, directing a menacing look at Eren.

Eren hops to his feet, not unlike the way he stands to attention, and lets Mikasa take his hand.

They form their lines, and Jean starts again.

"Wait. So does anyone actually know how to dance a reel?" someone asks.

Connie is the only one to raise his hand.

"Upon my word!" he cries in mock horror, "Don't tell me that you've all forgotten—why, we've been dancing the reel since before we could walk!" and then he drops the accent, clearing his throat: "It's not that hard. Just follow my lead and move like you've got a silver spoon down your throat."

It turns out to be a mess, despite Connie calling out frantic commands while gracefully demonstrating. Sasha ends up booting Jean from his violin duties, performing her own interpretation of what she assures them is refinement, and the reel quickly becomes a muddle of stepped on toes and profane language—it's no surprise when they all topple to the floor, save for Jean, who miraculously manages to stay on his feet.

He laughs and makes to walk away from the wreckage before him, when a hand reaches out to grab his ankle. Jean falls, his teeth clamping down on his tongue with a satisfying crunch.

"FUCKING HELL, CONNIE!" he sputters through blood and saliva.

Eren laughs. And he's surprised at the sound. He thought he'd forgotten the way it rang out, the way it felt to throw back his head in joy. In truth, he thought he'd forgotten how to laugh.

But as he remembers how to smile, he remembers a similar face riding beside him, choking on his tongue as he tries to speak. He remembers the same face lying beneath the forest canopy in a field of crimson grass, mouth open, but forever silent.

And Eren remembers that today is not for dancing.

"Hey, you brats better set the candle out now, unless you want to freeze to death," Levi calls out.

Krista grabs the candle and the match, and Armin grabs a wooden bowl from the kitchen, six people attempting to rush out the door at once.

They end up placing the candle in a water trough—their main source of fresh water a hand-cranked well pump, and the nearest body of water too far away to travel to at this hour.

A rare silence falls over the group as they watch the sad little flame float with no direction. No final destination, nowhere to go—it makes his chest tighten, and his head ache. A scream gathers in his throat.

He can see the past illuminated in the glow of the flame: tears falling from soft brown eyes and crimson falling from the sky, a voice of reason and freckled cheeks lost forever in the chaos, four wing-crested backs lying broken on the forest floor, light gone, leaving dull, empty eyes behind. All of them trapped to the confines of the horse's water trough.

Move, he wills the candle.  _Move_.

It doesn't.

Instead, it's the group before the flame that moves on, their numbers decreasing little by little, until he, Mikasa, and the lance corporal are the only ones who remain outside. They stand in silence, until Mikasa turns to leave. She stops at Eren's side.

"You're cold," she says to him, touching his arm.

His shoulders shake, and his teeth chatter just at the wrong moment.

"I'm fine," he insists.

But she stops him anyways, and winds the scarf around his neck securing it with a final knot.

Old habits whisper in his ear, telling him to reject her efforts—that he must stand on his own—but something else inside of him, a quieter voice, yet stronger nonetheless, reasons otherwise. And maybe it's the candle's lonely flame before him, or because it really  _is_  cold tonight, but Eren realizes that being on his own is the last thing he wants.

"The stars," Mikasa whispers, and her eyes seem to be drawn far past the twinkling lights above, towards another, warmer world, "They're beautiful."

She looks him in the eye with an expression he can't decipher, but it's only for a brief moment, and then she's gone.

Eren looks up after her footsteps fade from earshot. And they are. It's as if a billion candle lights dot the sky. So much light, so far away. And he feels so incredibly lonely and powerless.

"It'll only get worse."

Eren jumps at the sound of Levi's voice.

"Heichou?"

"I'm not a fucking idiot, Eren—I can see it on your damn face."

And then he speaks again, his voice taking on an uncharacteristic softness, a hollow whisper: "You've gotta pretend that you don't hear the voices,  _pretend_  that you don't see them everywhere you turn. Otherwise, it'll eat you alive."

For a moment the lance corporal's eyes seem to go blank, unseeing of the present before him as he relives the pale faces and limp limbs. His eyes take on the same characteristics of the one's that visit him in sleep—hollow and empty.

Eren doesn't respond—he doesn't know how. And it's the silhouette of a haunted man that walks away from him, a vivid image in a mirror turned crystal ball.

His worst fear realized as he stands in solitude before the water trough, his body takes on a numbness he wishes he could attribute to the cold.

He looks up at the stars once more.

As a child, his father would tell him how the twinkling lights above were worlds and worlds away. Starlight was merely a ghostly phenomenon of their universe.

Pretend—the word echoes in his ear— _pretend_.

So he tells himself that the candle burning in front of him is insignificant, that any light their lives left behind is not trapped here, in this cold, cold land, but written in the stars, words and worlds away.

And that, for now, is enough to put his heart at ease.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I've posted an alternate ending on my tumblr (I'm under the same handle) that's more Eremika oriented. I had to cut it for a variety of reasons: it was too fluffy, it didn't align with the overall theme, and it wouldn't have had nearly the same effect as the ending I ultimately chose.


	3. A Waltz For Two

" _But you can't leave today!" Eren says. And then he protests: "Today's a holiday!"_

" _Oi, Yeager. I didn't know you were so damn sentimental," Jean spits from his horse._

_Eren doesn't even bother retorting._

" _Real soldiers don't have time for sentimentality," Armin echoes, "It's just a council meeting_ — _we'll be back in three days time," he sighs with a heaving breath that draws attention to the bags under his eyes and the weight that seems to sit on his shoulders._

_Mikasa steps forward, pulling Armin and Eren into an unexpected embrace._

" _We'll still miss you. Especially today," she says._

_Parting leaves a hollow ache in Eren's chest._

" _Take care of him, Mikasa," Sasha calls out as they ride away. The last things to disappear from view are the wings on their backs._

**_. . . . ._ **

They're alone.

It's not like a year ago, where it was eight of them, crammed in a small little cabin. There's no out of tune violin, no grand ballroom—it's just the two of them, bound to the house when the nearest body of water is only two miles away. The cabin is silent.

Eren confines himself to his room, drawing the shades and shutting the door, he pulls the blankets to his chin, and lets sleep claim him. He opens his eyes to an endless field of green, purple flowers swaying with the breeze. He's sitting with his back against a towering oak tree, sunlight flecking out through the leaves and leaving its mosaic on his hands. This is how it always starts.

He stands, leaving the shadow of the oak's umbrella, peering out at the world before him. Turning, turning, turning, the field goes on forever, the sky unobstructed, there is no beginning, there is no end, no wall that stops the sky from meeting land.

And off in the distance lies a house, smoke wafting out the chimney, and white linen fluttering like the wings of a butterfly on the breeze.

Ever so faintly, he hears it—a familiar voice calling his name. Eren runs. He runs, and runs, and it's as if he's flying, taking a mile at a time with each stride, and he flings open the front door of his house not long after.

"Mother!" he exclaims to the figure in front of him. She turns, giving him that warm smile of hers, her arms open to receive him. He rushes forwards, his arms encircling her. And then she shatters.

Like glass, she breaks in his arms, disintegrating into dust, and the house splits open, crumbling to the ground revealing the graying sky above, lightning-like fractures cracking overhead. Everywhere he turns, the purple flowers wilt crimson, the whole world withering before his eyes. And then he shatters, too.

This is how it always ends.

Eren opens his eyes to his dark room, the shades drawn shut and the sheets pulled up to his. The blank ceiling above him makes his limbs heavy and his eyes droop.

A knock on the door—"Eren,"—she calls from the other side, "It's time."

It's with great effort that he frees himself from the blankets' claim. And it's still as if he's within a dream when he opens his bedroom door and ventures outside.

**. . . . .**

Mikasa strikes the match and lights the wick, setting the candle beside the window as Eren watches.

"The temperature dropped too low while you were sleeping. This will have to do," she says.

The reflection of the flame in the glass burns stationary—a lonely little candle with no others beside it, its fire never fading from view.

She stands, her silhouette framed by the window, clinging to the scarf that hangs around her neck. The curves of her shoulders look so bare, so tired, so heavy. And the expression of longing she has for the candle scares him—because he's felt it too. Its warmth so inviting in a world so cold, the faces illuminated in its light seem to reach out their hands to beckon them in from the chilly weather. How he has ached to be a part of that summer world.

If there were a way to lift the weight from her shoulders, a way to bring the warmth of the summer world into their own, he'd do it. But a future like that—where she'd no longer need a scarf to keep her warm—is unfathomable; the limits of his power rest only in remedying the loneliness of tonight.

And so he makes his way towards her, taking her hands from the scarf around her neck in his own, pulling her close as he forces himself not to turn away from her questioning face. There's no music—no crooning violin, no joyous melody—only silence. "Dance with me," Eren says anyways.

As soon as their feet start moving, he remembers exactly why music is so vital to dancing. He goes stiff, his movements awkward with no sense of direction or time, but the small laugh it brings to her throat makes the flushing of his cheeks more bearable.

Defeated, their steps change, and, her head finding his shoulder, they rock to and fro, their feet falling in rhythm with their breath.

"Another year," Eren says as they sway.

"Another year," she repeats. "What happens next?"

Eren's breath catches in his throat.

They both know what follows. And for all the mysteries that life holds, only the final enigma is guaranteed to be unveiled."What happens next" becomes less about what, and more about when. Just how many waltzes in the light of a candle do they have left? How many waltzes do they have until the only light that remains of themselves floats down a tranquil river?

"I don't know," Eren replies.

And in truth, he'd rather that he never know. Because life, like the wick of the candle, flickering beside the window, is too short.

"Then lie to me," Mikasa whispers. "Tell me the most beautiful lie. What happens next?"

He wants to let her into his mind, to show her his idealistic fantasies where they live horribly boring lives, wasting days under the summer sun as they lay on their backs to watch the clouds drift by. He wants to tell her how he's dreamed of the day that they finally open up the walls, the day that they'll follow the trail of candles on the river until they reach the ocean.

They'll tear off their shoes, and feel the sand beneath their toes, rush out into the crashing waves, and taste the salt on their lips. They'll reach their arms out to encompass the sky and the vast blue before them and claim what is theirs by birth: a life of freedom.

They'll travel the world. They'll climb mountains and trek through deserts, and when Shiganshina finally calls them back, when he asks her to go home with him once more, he'll put a ring around her finger instead of a scarf around her neck.

Tell her.

Tell her how her hair will grow long—until she cuts it—and how it'll just grow long once more. And if he could measure their days spent together by the length of her hair, she'd leave a trail of night behind her, circling round the earth an infinite amount of times. Tell her how their hair will turn gray and snowy, how each paper wrinkle on their faces will hold just as much beauty as the smooth flush of youth.

Tell her.

"We'll grow old together," is all he says.

They sway, two hearts beating in an empty room. It's peculiar, really, how he feels so old and weathered already, tired and heavy with each step, and yet how he feels like a child at the same time—helpless, and crying in sleep as he tries to wake from a nightmare that just won't end.

"We'll grow old together," she murmurs back. Her voice is empty.

He's come to understand that the future can hurt just as much as the past, and how much it aches to be caught in the middle of the two. He's come to learn that that's just what life is: an endless cycle of sorrow, no beginning, no end. Living is simply stringing together lie, after lie, after beautiful lie, stitching together something bearable in a world so cruel.

Fake it. That's the only way to live. Fake a smile, fake a laugh, fake hope, and tell yourself that one day, these trials will only be stories you tell to your child as you tuck them in at night, fake ignorance, and pretend that you've never seen how crimson stains cobblestone, never seen how dreams die with one flash of teeth, and how mother's grasp their own shoulders when they sob because they've got no daughter to hold. Pretend that you've never learned how to properly dig a grave. Fake it, because you'll never truly make it.

She looks up at him, and he brushes the bangs from her watering eyes. His thumb touches the small smile on her lips.

A beautiful, beautiful lie.

**-FIN-**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's the last of it! I'd like to point out (because I feel as if I may burst if I don't!) that I'm quite proud of the theme of lies making reality more bearable, maintained throughout the piece.
> 
> And really, truly, thank you so much for reading, reviewing and favoriting. I'm so glad that there are people out there that enjoy my writing.


End file.
